


Love Burns Its Casualties

by anactoria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Community: spn_masquerade, Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, Missing Scene, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4886422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“So, you and Douche Me really had a bad breakup, huh?” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Dean regrets the words the second they’re out of his mouth, but Cas doesn’t give him an answer. Doesn’t correct him on the ‘douche’ thing, either.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>There’s just the sound of his footsteps, and then a slice of light opening up in the black as he cracks the cabin door, catching the edges of his profile. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>He turns to Dean and jerks his head. “Coming?”</i>
</p><p>Missing scene from 5.04 "The End". Dean and Cas share a joint; try to avoid thinking; fail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Burns Its Casualties

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt](http://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/6017.html?thread=1950593#t1950593) on SPN Masquerade: _Endverse Cas smoking a joint and shotgunning with any version of Dean (although 2009!Dean would be especially delightful)._
> 
> Unbetaed; apologies for any mistakes.

It’s dark in Camp Chitaqua, and here, that really means dark. Blackout blinds over every window to avoid attracting the Croats, and not a damn star in the sky. Dean probably should’ve thought about that before he headed outside to take a piss, but hey, he’s still adjusting to life after the end, and nobody offered him a flashlight. So, now he’s groping his way around the side of somebody’s cabin, straining to see his hand in front of his face and trying to remember which of the near-identical little shacks he came out of. No distinguishing features in the dark; just square black shadows against a slightly-less-black sky.

Not that spending the rest of the evening trading glares with Douchebag Dean From 2014 is his idea of a good time. He actually thought about trying to sweet-talk one of Cas’s groupies, or some other chick from the camp, just for the sake of somewhere to hole up away from his asshole future self for a couple hours. (This whole shitshow doesn’t exactly have him in the mood for chasing tail, but Dean’s used a smile and wink to get himself a place to crash before now, and he’ll do it again.) 

Only, everybody who isn’t busy preparing for the mission—moving around each other with the kind of practised familiarity that even the most competent outsider would only get in the way of—is looking at Dean like he’s a ghost, and he can’t exactly blame them. (He can and will blame Future Dean for fucking and running, because that sure as shit hasn’t helped his chances, but he could go round in circles doing that all night and it still wouldn’t get him anywhere.) He sighs and kicks at a tuft of grass that turns out to be a rock, stumbles and curses.

There’s a sound off behind him that might be a laugh. 

Dean frowns and turns on the spot. Stops when he sees something flicker in the darkness. 

Somebody’s there, just across the way, lurking beside the steps to one of the bigger cabins. The darkness disorients him, but Dean’s pretty sure it’s the same one he found Love Guru Cas hanging out in earlier.

The sound of a flint sparking, and then Cas’s face lights up for half a second, illuminated gold in the flame of his Bic like he’s some plaster saint. 

His eyes are closed as he inhales, and Dean turns back in the direction he was headed. He doesn’t need this version of Cas finding him wandering around camp like a lost sheep.

“Dean.”

Cas’s voice stops him in his tracks. Dean sighs and turns back.

He can’t see Cas in the darkness, just the lit end of his joint glowing in the dark. “Sorry, man. You got the wrong one.”

“Not necessarily.” There’s something in Cas’s voice, half-amused, half-curious. “You stopped.” He says it like it’s something out of the ordinary.

“So, you and Douche Me really had a bad breakup, huh?” 

Dean regrets the words the second they’re out of his mouth, but Cas doesn’t give him an answer. Doesn’t correct him on the ‘douche’ thing, either.

There’s just the sound of his footsteps, and then a slice of light opening up in the black as he cracks the cabin door, catching the edges of his profile. 

He turns to Dean and jerks his head. “Coming?”

Dean is all ready to tell him, _No thanks_. Then he remembers what’s waiting for him in the other cabin. That hard-eyed other Dean, like looking at himself in a mirror that’s only slightly distorted.

He shuts up and follows.

There’s nobody else in the cabin. Dean cocks an eyebrow. “What, could be your last night on earth and you’re _not_ spending it with the Banger Sisters?”

Cas folds himself into a sitting position on one of the floor cushions. Laughs. “Last night on earth. And there I thought I remembered the first time you tried that line on me.” He takes a hit off the joint and holds it in for a second before he exhales slow and steady, lips parted like he’s about to kiss somebody. “I’m not talking about that night with the hookers. First time you actually tried it, without the middleman.” He pauses. “Middlewoman, I guess.”

Dean flushes. “I didn’t mean it like—it wasn’t a line!”

“It wasn’t then, either. Not that you realized at the time.” 

Dean doesn’t know how the hell, or even if, he’s supposed to reply to that, so he doesn’t. Cas stretches his legs out in front of him, looks up at Dean and then nods at the cushion beside him in invitation. 

He isn’t smirking, like Dean kind of expected. There’s an open curiosity in his eyes, and just for a second, it reminds Dean of _his_ Cas so sharply he has to look away.

Only then Cas leans back against the cushions, and the way he moves is so different to the Cas that Dean knows. Slow, but a little too deliberate to be lazy, drawing attention to the wiry strength under his dumb hippie clothes. He moves like he’s aware of every part of himself. Maybe that’s only possible now that Cas is functionally human, living in a mortal body instead of just wearing it, no more raw power wrapped up in awkwardness.

“You know you’re staring, right?” Cas doesn’t look offended, or uncomfortable. More like he’s asking a genuine question, except for the faint curve of his mouth as he puts the joint back to his lips.

Dean scowls. “Am not,” he says, and moves to sit on the cushion beside Cas so they’re both facing in the same direction, not looking each other in the eyes.

Problem is, that puts them a whole lot closer together, and at this distance, Dean finds himself hyper-aware of Cas. His human body heat. Every tiny movement that he makes. Every drag he takes off his joint, breathing out steady, smoke rolling on his breath. Dean feels his heartbeat speed up, feels it in his ears and his throat. Which is dumb, because this is still Cas, right? Cas is definitely weird, and occasionally a little creepy, but he doesn’t actually make Dean nervous.

He starts when Cas’s shoulder bumps against his, head whipping around.

Cas’s eyes are right there, boring into him, intense in a way that’s familiar and shrewd in a way that isn’t. 

Dean shifts uncomfortably on his cushion, but all Cas does is hold out the joint. 

“I uh. I don’t,” Dean says. Which is kind of true, in that he hasn’t in years. Partly because smoking always leaves him feeling like a raccoon has shit in his mouth come morning, but mostly because it feels like too big of a risk. Booze can dull his reactions, sure, but it also keeps him angry. Wasted enough to start a bar fight but not wasted enough to lose one: that’s okay. But letting himself feel mellow, feel easy— _that_ would be dangerous. That’s why the last time he smoked was before he found Sam in Stanford.

The thought of Sam punches a hole through him, and he swallows hard. Looks down and finds his hands clenched into fists, knuckles white.

When he glances up again, Cas is still looking at him. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Dean says. “In case you were about to ask.” Who knows if Cas has picked up a degree in pop psychology to go along with the love guru schtick?

But Cas looks genuinely surprised. “I wasn’t.” He pauses. “But you do look like you could use a little help.” He proffers the joint again, and this time Dean thinks about taking it for at least a couple seconds before he shakes his head.

“Like I said. Don’t smoke.”

Cas shrugs. “Like _I_ said. A little help.” He lifts the joint and takes another breath in, deep and deliberate. Holds it, and leans into Dean’s space, close enough that for a second he thinks Cas is about to kiss him.

Then the remnant of Dean’s stoner brain kicks in, and he realizes that isn’t what this is—though it might as well be, because when is shotgunning ever not a prelude to kissing?

Cas lifts an eyebrow, like, _Get on with it, can’t hold my breath forever_ , and a whole bunch of thoughts flash through Dean’s head at once. 

_Is he—?_ and, _Were they—?_ and, _Maybe he’s just fucking with me_ , and, _Maybe it’s some kinda test_. 

And finally—because whatever happens here, Zach is zapping him back to 2009 tomorrow, and anyway, he doesn’t actually think he could make this reality any worse— _Why the hell not?_

So, he looks Cas in the eyes. Leans in, parts his lips half an inch from Cas’s, and pulls smoke into his mouth on Cas’s breath.

The taste of it is earthy and familiar, calls to mind moments of peace long buried under the sheer weight of crap the universe has been dumping on his head since the day he realized Dad wasn’t coming home and took off for California. 

Under the bleachers at Truman High when he should’ve been in math class, one Discman headphone in his right ear while some kid whose name he’s forgotten enthused about drone-metal in the other. In Rhonda Hurley’s bed right after she’d fucked his brains out (the first time—that was a hell of a night), passing a joint back and forth and giggling like schoolkids every time they caught each other’s eyes. Out back of some nameless drinking hole in Idaho, leaning against the alley wall beside a blue-eyed bartender who Dean ducked out on after one too many glances that lingered a beat longer than necessary and left a warm flush creeping up the back of his neck.

He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until Cas’s thoughtful hum makes him open them again. 

Dean tries to conjure up a scowl, afraid he’s being laughed at. Cas just keeps watching him, all intent and curious, takes another hit off the joint and leans in again.

This time, he doesn’t pull away after Dean inhales. He stays there, a hair’s breadth from touching, his proximity making Dean’s lips tingle. His eyes are hooded. Dean holds the smoke in his lungs a second longer than he needs to, trying not to stare at Cas’s mouth, and when he breathes out it’s a little shaky. 

Cas’s smile widens, something feline about the satisfaction in it.

A few more shared breaths and Dean’s starting to feel it, limbs loose, vision strobing gently when he stares at one spot for too long. He slides down a little on the floor cushions, and this time he doesn’t start when his shoulder meets Cas’s. 

Cas turns to look at him, and there’s something softer in his eyes, something that wasn’t there earlier. Surprise, maybe. Almost before Dean registers it’s there, it vanishes, replaced by the lazy grin that seems to be this Cas’s default expression.

“What?” Dean says, frowning.

Cas shrugs and leans into him so they’re almost-but-not-quite holding each other up. The joint’s almost burned down to the end now, but Cas takes a final hit off it anyway, his nose bumping against Dean’s as their faces turn toward each other.

Tastes a little bitter this time, too close to the roach, and Dean grimaces and swallows, but doesn’t pull back.

Neither does Cas.

There’s a moment where they just hover there, faces too close to really look at each other, Cas’s breath tickling his skin. Dean tells himself that Cas is the one who moves in and turns it into a kiss.

It’s gentle but not tentative, lips brushing against lips, slow and easy, and then there’s Cas’s tongue in his mouth and the taste of smoke on it. 

Sure, this is a bad idea. Dean isn’t stoned enough not to care, but he is stoned enough—or tired enough, or done enough with this trainwreck of a future—to do it anyway, to suck lightly on Cas’s tongue and sink back against the cushions, a hand on Cas’s hip to pull him with, thumb brushing the skin above Cas’s waistband.

Cas almost goes with it, then chuckles and pulls away. Dean makes a noise of protest in his throat. If they stop then he’ll end up thinking about this, and then the sane part of his brain will kick in and put the brakes on.

Dean doesn’t want that. He should, but he doesn’t.

“Hey,” Cas says, softer than Dean expects. “I’m not going anywhere.” ( _I’ll just wait here._ ) No glint of amusement in his eyes; no edge of sarcasm in his voice. 

Was this how they were with each other, once? This Cas, and that other Dean? Sincere, together, holding onto each other in the ruins?

Thinking about it feels like grabbing a handful of thorns. If Dean keeps hold of it a moment longer, he won’t be able to help but cut and run. 

But Cas reaches for the ashtray sitting in the middle of the floor, grinds out the end of the joint, and then takes Dean’s hand. He stands up, pulling Dean to his feet, and Dean goes with it as easy as if Cas were _his_ Cas, all angelic strength and no point in resisting.

“Where are we going?” Dean grumbles, to keep himself from following that train of thought.

“Somewhere a little more comfortable.”

The bed is scattered with even more cushions than the floor, if that’s possible. Briefly, Dean gets caught up wondering how Cas gets away with this crap. Picking up fluffy pillows on supply runs instead of essentials; taking up space with his home-grown green when they could be planting vegetables. No way it doesn’t piss people off, and Douchebag Dean doesn’t exactly seem like the indulgent type.

Except that feeling guilty enough to give in on the little things, because he knows he’ll never put Cas or any of his other friends in front of the specter of a long-lost brother—well, that sounds like him alright. That sounds too much like him for comfort.

“You’re thinking.” Cas’s voice is up close again, right in his ear. Cas’s hand trails down the front of his shirt. “Trust me, it’s better if you don’t.”

Dean swallows and focuses on Cas’s face. “What’s better?” he manages to say.

Cas just gives him another of those little grins, and walks backwards to the bed. He keeps his eyes fixed on Dean’s, but manages to land on his ass among the pillows without looking like a complete tool. It’s almost choreographed, and a bitter little part of Dean wonders how much practice this Cas has gotten at dragging people into bed.

“Still doing it,” Cas says, and scoots over, shoving a couple pillows off of the bed to make room for Dean. (Luckily, he doesn’t hit any of the candles scattered around the place with little-to-no regard for fire safety.) He pats the mattress, and watches Dean’s face with something like his old intensity until Dean gives in and sits his ass down.

Cas might be screwing the world and her sister, but he could have any one of his groupies right now—or, hell, all of them—and instead, he’s here with Dean. He still looks at Dean like he’s the only thing in the whole damn world. Even when there were two of him in the room. Even after whatever the hell happened between this Cas and Douchebag Dean that has them sniping at each other like a couple of high schoolers every chance they get.

There isn’t a name for the feeling that gnaws at Dean’s guts at that thought, or if there is he doesn’t know it. Could be guilt or it could be pride, but it’s probably something more complicated than either of them.

Dean doesn’t have to think about it for long, because Cas palms his cheek and turns his face and kisses him again, and soon enough they’re stretched out atop the covers, pressed together from head to toe, moving unhurriedly against each other. Their kisses are slow and slick, easy to get lost in and not really leading anywhere, and it feels like they lie there forever before Cas breaks away and rolls over to dig in one of the bedside drawers.

He comes back out with some fancy little carved wooden box instead of a rolling tin, turns and brushes a kiss to Dean’s hairline before propping himself up on the poofy pillows to construct another joint. 

Construct: that’s the word for it, because Cas is fucking fastidious about this, if nothing else. His eyes narrow in concentration, the pink tip of his tongue darting out to wet the edge of a rolling paper. His hands are steady and careful, like he’s laying out the ingredients for a spell. He actually holds the thing up in front of his eyes when he’s done, inspecting it for symmetry before he puts it to his lips and lights it.

It’s the end of the world as they know it, and this is what Cas chooses to pour the remainder of his single-minded dedication into.

Only Cas rolls over, then, turns back to him with an unreadable look in his eyes, and Dean thinks of his half-irritable, _Of course_ , when Douchebag Dean asked whether he was coming after Lucifer, and decides maybe he’s being a little unfair.

A blink, and the unreadable look is gone. Cas pulls him in again, puts their lips together and breathes smoke into his mouth.

It feels more intimate than the kissing, somehow, laying pressed together like this, sharing breath, letting the tension bleed out of him under Cas’s touch and Cas’s mouth. Cas balances the joint in the ashtray, and his hand sneaks up under the hem of Dean’s shirt, a ticklish brush of fingertips that makes Dean squirm and catch his breath to keep from laughing. Cas hums amusement against his collarbone and lets his hands explore further, tracing slow trails over Dean’s skin, bringing a faint tingle of arousal to the surface. 

If he’s honest with himself, Dean can admit that he’s thought about touching his Cas like this. (Hey, this isn’t the real world; he can go back to lying to himself about it tomorrow.) Never _like this_ like this, though. He always figured it would be at least little awkward, a lot intense, and probably too much for him to wrap his brain around when it came down to it. That’s one of the many, many reasons he’s never given it a shot. But this is easy, familiar, like they’re old lovers. Like they have all the time in the world, instead of a couple hours before Cas and Douchebag Dean and the rest head out on their kamikaze run.

Dean wraps his arms around Cas and kisses him again to stop thinking, and Cas shifts in closer, slides palms under his waistband to grope his ass. This close, Dean can feel the stirrings of Cas’s hard-on against his thigh, and his heart does this nervous little skip—because it’s been a long time since he was with another dude, and a longer time since he was with somebody he really didn’t want to hate him in the morning—but Cas doesn’t try to push anything. Just keeps right on kissing him until the moments start to blur, then breaks away to share another hit.

They’re maybe halfway through the joint when Cas licks his fingertips, pinches the end to put it out, and sets the ashtray down on the nightstand with a decisive thunk.

Dean looks up, not a hundred percent on what’s expected of him. He meets Cas’s eyes, feels himself caught somewhere between invitation and defiance. Cas smirks and moves to straddle his hips.

Then he stops, looking down into Dean’s face. He stills, his eyes losing focus for the space of a heartbeat, and Dean gets the uncomfortable feeling that Cas isn’t really looking at _him_ anymore.

He tugs at the hem of Cas’s dumb hippie shirt. “Hey. Hey, don’t space out on me, man.”

Cas’s smirk slots back into place. “Trust me, it takes a lot more than we just smoked to do that.”

Dean didn’t need to hear that, or any of its implications, but before he can say so, Cas swoops in to kiss him again. More intent behind it, this time, and he tugs Dean’s shirt down off of his shoulders, curves a hand around the back of his neck and gives a roll of his hips. Dean lets his hands creep up under Cas’s shirt, the skin warm under his hands, tracing the ridges of Cas’s hipbones with his thumbs. Cas makes a pleased noise into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed.

Cas used to be a lightning storm bottled up in a body. This—this is all so human. The taste of weed smoke on his tongue, the softness of his skin, the firm touch of his hand as he reaches down between them to palm Dean’s dick through his jeans. 

It should bother Dean, probably. It should make him feel guilty enough to drop the whole thing and run. It will, later, he figures.

But not right now. Cas’s home-grown is strong stuff, and the world is softer and easier like this, with the edges taken off. He can hardly blame Cas for preferring to live life stoned off his ass. He can’t even blame Cas for whatever ulterior motive he’s got going on here, or for whatever happened between them in the past that’s still Dean’s future. 

Cas’s lips brush the side of his neck, a light touch that turns into a wet, open-mouthed kiss and sends sparks down his spine. Dean has to grit his teeth to stifle a moan, and this time, he can’t even think about being mad when Cas laughs against his skin. Cas rolls his hips again, starts stroking Dean in earnest, steady and firm in time with his thrusts, and there’s a slow burn of need in Dean’s veins and he closes his eyes and just lets it happen.

Cas takes his time about it—which, yeah, Dean should’ve figured him for the tease of the century—but eventually he crawls down the bed and gets Dean’s jeans open, mouthing at the tip of his cock through his boxers, hot and inviting and just _there_.

He doesn’t do anything else for a moment, looking up at Dean with a glint in his eyes, and Dean groans and lets his head fall back against the cushions. “C’mon, man,” he complains. “You’re killing me here.”

Cas gives him another one of those unreadable looks. “Not exactly,” he says, but before Dean has time to start thinking about what that’s supposed to mean, Cas hooks his thumbs under the waistband of Dean’s boxers and pulls them out the way, and the way he looks at Dean like he’s an all-you-can-eat buffet chases all the thoughts out of Dean’s head.

For a moment, Cas just nuzzles the skin at the inside of his thigh and breathes there, warm against Dean’s skin. He gives a single flick of his tongue. Licks a stripe up the underside of Dean’s cock, making him shiver, and then swallows him right down.

Those first couple seconds of a blowjob are the best thing in the world, they’re sweet fucking relief and hallelujahs all round, and by the time Dean comes back from them, Cas has his eyes closed. He’s gripping Dean’s thighs hard, like he thinks Dean might actually change his mind and decide to run out on him, fingernails digging in deep enough they’re gonna leave marks. When Dean props himself up on his elbows to watch—because hey, this is probably the only time he’s ever gonna see Cas’s mouth around his cock, sue him for wanting a mental image to take home with him—Cas half-opens one of his eyes, but doesn’t falter in his rhythm. He just makes a contented noise somewhere in his throat, the vibration just the right side of uncomfortable, and does some swirly thing with his tongue that has Dean flopping back against the pillows again, eyes squeezed shut so tightly he sees stars.

This Cas may be perma-wasted, but he sucks cock with absolute focus, like it’s a sobriety test he’s determined to pass. No: like he’s praying. He touches Dean the way the real Cas looks at him. Intense, destabilizing, impossible to resist. 

And thank God—or whoever—for that, because otherwise Dean would start thinking again. Instead he’s coming apart under Cas’s touch, his _mouth_ , hot and wet and so fucking good. He’s shaking with it, hands fisted in the bedcovers, swallowing down moans that would tell half the camp what they’re doing. And then he’s just coming, hard, down Cas’s throat, an orgasm that creeps up on him slow and then hits him like a ninja freight train, leaving him breathless and blinking as he drifts back to himself.

Cas pulls off and licks his lips, this fucking absurd cat-that-got-the-cream look on his face, and Dean’s pretty sure you’re supposed to stop teasing people after you’ve just gotten them off, but he still can’t look away. When Cas kisses him again, he doesn’t even think twice about it until he tastes his own come on Cas’s tongue.

Dean breaks away, wrinkling his nose. “Dude.” 

“What, _now_ you’re too good to share?”

“Shut up.” Dean shifts his head, lets his mouth graze over the scruff at Cas’s jaw instead. “Where’d you even learn to do that, anyway?”

Cas pulls back a couple inches and gives him a calculating look. “Do you really want to know?”

Something twists in Dean’s chest, and he ducks his head. “Probably not,” he admits, though he doesn’t know if he’s more afraid that the answer won’t be _you_ , or that it will be. 

This time, when Cas leans in to kiss him, he doesn’t bitch about it.

Cas must’ve kicked his pants off mid-blowjob, because he’s naked from the waist down, now, and he takes himself in hand with his face nuzzled into the side of Dean’s neck, stroking his cock lightly. They’re pressed close enough together that Dean feels the tremors that run through Cas’s body at his own touch, can feel how close he is, and he swallows hard.

He shifts a little on the bed. Cas looks up and meets his eyes.

“You want, uh—” Dean pauses. Lets his eyes dart to Cas’s cock and wets his lips. “I could. You know.”

He actually sees Cas’s cock twitch with interest, but Cas gives him a long, considering look, then says, “No.” It’s more emphatic than Dean expects, and then Cas uses his free hand to grab Dean’s wrist and pull him into another kiss.

Nothing lazy about this one. It’s urgent, bruisingly hard, Cas’s tongue in his mouth, Cas’s fingers not letting go of his wrist. Like he’s still afraid Dean will up and leave before they’re done, and he’s got no other way to show it.

Cas moans into his mouth, then, shudders as he comes, spurting all over his hand and getting it on at least two of the stupid cushions. He gasps for breath when he pulls away from the kiss, and for maybe half a second he looks a little wild-eyed, staring into Dean’s face like he’s searching for something.

Dean doesn’t know if Cas is gonna find it, or even what it is, so he looks at the cushions and says, “Man, I hope your dry cleaner doesn’t ask too many questions.”

Cas just looks at him. Then catches his breath and laughs. “Makes a change from picking bits of Croat off of my clothes,” he says, lightly, and leans back into the pillows. 

He looks like he wants to close his eyes and stay there, but a second later, he’s sitting up again, rolling his shoulders and reaching down the bottom of the bed for his pants. Dean feels an unexpected twinge of disappointment. He reaches out, his hand hovering over the small of Cas’s back.

“Don’t you think you could use a little shut-eye?” he says. “I mean, you got an hour and a half before you have to go. And you can’t exactly run on empty these days.”

Cas is on his feet, then, stepping into his pants, but he looks at Dean over his shoulder and smiles. Dean recognizes the smile. He’s seen it on his own face plenty of times. 

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Cas says. “So, in about four hours.”

Dean breathes out heavily, that little twinge of disappointment becoming something much bigger and much colder. “Shut the hell up,” he manages. “You don’t know that.” It sounds more like a plea than anything else.

Cas is silent for a moment, not looking at him. He stands on his toes, arms locked above his head, stretching until his spine cracks. When he turns back to Dean, his eyes are very tired. 

“I was gonna say don't ever change,” he says, “but...” He gestures languidly with one hand.

Dean snorts, and this time he’s the one who looks away.

He hears the click of a lighter, and when he glances up at Cas, the remainder of the joint is in his mouth. Cas takes a couple pulls, eyes fixed on some spot on the wall above Dean’s head, then sits down heavily on the edge of the mattress. 

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do,” he says. And he doesn’t: there’s no _but_ , no _just this one thing_. Only: “I miss—” and then silence, and then a faint, self-mocking smile.

“Cas—” Dean’s voice scratches the back of his throat.

Cas holds up a hand. “Don’t.” He puts the joint to his lips again, inhales deeply and leans into Dean’s space. It takes Dean a second to figure out what this is.

A kiss goodbye, or at least as much of one as Cas will allow himself.

How is he supposed to say no to that? 

So he closes his eyes and tastes the smoke Cas breathes into his mouth. It’s like inhaling ghosts.

When Dean opens his eyes again, the cabin door is swinging on its hinges and Cas is gone, vanished like a wisp of smoke into the last night on earth.


End file.
